


just a cane and a throne

by graywhatsit



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Descriptions of gore, Disabled Character, Injury, Injury Recovery, Mutual Pining, Origin Story, Other, Physical Therapy, Strained Relationships, Whump, damien and his cane, pre-wkm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27228748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: A lot of people wonder where Damien got his cane, and why.Most likely, they don’t really want to know the truth.
Relationships: Damien | The Mayor/Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	1. hit the dirt

**Author's Note:**

> i am.... so sorry  
> i love damien with all my heart and soul but this- i needed to write this story  
> it’s my headcanon that he really needs his cane most days for a bad leg, and you have to get that somewhere...  
> title from always by p!atd  
> catch me @fgfluidity on tumblr

Damien gets a lot of questions about his cane.

Or, he did, at the start of his career. Shiny, black wood and polished silver, it completes the look of distinguished statesman, but why carry it around when it takes up a hand? Where did he get it? He always seems spry and energetic— is it really all for show?

There’s a story he tells other politicians, the curious public: it was a gift from a good friend, a gentle tease and example of his status upon his election to mayor, and it doesn’t get in the way, much.

This isn’t too far off the truth of the matter— but that story isn’t for the public to hear, and, likely?

They really don’t want to.

————

“You’re asking me to what, now?”

Damien hadn’t expected the Colonel— William— _Will_ — to show up at his home during his first semester of law school— wasn’t he just on some grand safari somewhere? He still isn’t certain how Will got into his _locked_ home, much less made himself comfortable at his desk.

Any further questioning along those lines fell to the wayside when— upon seeing him— Will exclaimed—

“Come hunting with me!”

Yes. That.

Will leans back in his desk chair, far too comfortable in letting the whole thing tip dangerously backwards. “You know, I haven’t been in an age? Safari doesn’t count, that’s scouting, not hunting or eating. Though some of that zebra looked delicious...”

Damien simply looks at his friend, bewildered. So many questions, and so little time. Best start with the most important. “So you’re asking _me_? I haven’t so much as held a _handgun_ , much less whatever _you’re_ planning to use.”

“Then I’ll teach you! It’s simple as anything, Dames— you’ll be a marksman before you know it.” Will lifts his hands up, mocking an invisible rifle. It makes him wobble in the chair— not that he seems to notice. “Keep your stock against your shoulder, breathe carefully, and—“

“Jesus—“ Damien darts forward, just as the chair begins to slip on the rug, and hefts both it and Will into a solid, flat position with a grunt. “Will!”

Will just beams at him. “Good reflexes! That’ll serve you well out there!”

Damien sighs, wearily, one hand coming to scrub at his face as he paces a few steps away. “I’m not a hunter, Will, but if you’re half this reckless out in the woods—“

“Only as much as I need to be.” As if that makes any sense, whatsoever. “It’s always good to have a second man, and with Mark off on his honeymoon—“

“ _Mark_ has gone with you?! How are you still _alive_?”

“— I need a new partner,” Will continues, not even acknowledging Damien’s interruption. “It’ll be fun, Damien— nothing to strengthen our bond as friends like a good few days in the woods together.”

He _would_ like to spend more time with his friends, now that law school has sapped what little remains of his free time. And, if a partner would keep Will from killing himself out in the middle of nowhere on some endless chase for glory... “I guess, Will. I have a break coming up, anyway. What are we hunting?”

Will laughs, delighted, and stands from the chair. “Bully! It’s deer season, my good man— venison awaits.” He claps a hand on one of Damien’s shoulders, and before he passes, Damien catches a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I’ll let you have a bigger share— you have a little lovebird to look after, I’ve heard.”

It takes Damien a good few seconds, but enough heat rises to his face that he’s surely _glowing_. He and the aspiring attorney— they’re the best of friends, and he has an _affection_ , yes, but—

Wait— how does _he_ know? He whips around to follow Will’s escape. “William! They aren’t— where the hell did you hear that? _William_!”

Will just laughs at him again, already out the door. Somehow, Damien can still hear it as the door shuts completely.

————

Damien has never been hunting before, but from all of Will’s bombastic stories, he’d guessed the whole ordeal to be exciting, with minute to minute action.

Hunting is rather more like fishing— he went once, also with Will— in that, mostly? They just _wait_.

They wait and watch through the trees for movement, and nearly ten times out of ten, what actually moves is a lonesome rabbit or a squirrel, scurrying over leaf litter.

Other than that, the woods are desolate, and virtually silent. Used to the sound from the city, Damien finds himself itching for some kind of noise on the second day.

“So,” he says, slowly, as Will stalks off for a different section of trees. No deer here, not even a twitch of a hare’s nose. Perhaps they sense his inadequacy.

_Or Will’s expertise,_ his mind offers, reassuringly. It’s not so helpful.

“What was safari like?”

Will hushes him, waving his non-rifle-bearing arm back in Damien’s direction before looking back with a frustrated glare. “You’ll scare off all our prey like that!” He scolds, hushed but sharp. “At least wait until we get to the stand.”

Oh, yes, the _stand_. A deer stand.

(He’d initially thought that was the mounting board for all those deer heads. Will laughed at him.)

It’s apparently supposed to be a real structure, built up in the forks of trees: a ladder leading up to a rough platform, shielded by a wall or two, and camouflaged to blend with the trees— hence the other name, a _blind_.

Fair enough, to sneak up on deer. Damien might be a city man, but he’s been to the country enough to know deer bolt at the drop of a hat. Ambush is all-but necessary.

He wouldn’t be against the stands at all, except—

Well, all ‘stands’ he’s been to the past day and a half were the bare forks of trees. No ladder, no structure, no camouflage.

Because the real thing isn’t _fun_ or _challenging_ enough, according to Will.

Keeping his clothes intact and his hands free from splinters seems plenty fun and challenging, but, as Will commands, Damien climbs the trees.

He’s gotten good at descending, finally. No more harsh landings that knock the air from his lungs.

With a sigh, Damien drops the matter, keeping his mouth shut and trudging along the path behind Will.

Time seems to drag on and on, but the sun— and the hands of his wristwatch— has hardly moved when Will stops him with a quiet, “Hold.”

It looks no different to Damien, but Will scans the ground intently for a few seconds, then nods, decisively. “This is it. Deer tracks,” he explains, glancing back for Damien’s benefit. “And we’ll take... ah, these two trees, here.”

The ground looks covered in the same leaves and dirt as before, but Will’s the expert. He’ll take his word for it. The trees, though... “You sure about these two, Colonel?”

Will, already scrambling up one such trunk like a squirrel in a pith helmet, grunts, “Sure as sugar. Come on, hurry up!”

“Well,” Damien steps up to the unoccupied trunk, “it’s just— they’re awfully close. And your rifle’s deafening.”

“Pshaw!” He actually says pshaw. Out loud. Of course he does. “I’ve been using it just fine, and— they need to be. I can’t very well pass over the gun if we’re yards apart!”

Damien’s foot slips. “You _what_?”

Will just keeps climbing. “If you find it, you shoot it. Keep your eyes peeled, Dames!”

Well, yes, Will gave him a crash course just before their departure, but— he’s actually supposed to _shoot_ —?

He eats meat, he knows where it comes from, but there’s a difference between getting it from a butcher and hunting it, yourself. As Damien scales the tree, far slower than Will, he prays he won’t find one at all.

It’s one accomplishment he could do without.

They’ve been settled in the trees for a good half hour, watching the empty woods, when Damien asks again. “Safari, Will. Really, what was it like?”

“I’m looking—“

“You said to wait, and I waited. Nothing is coming right now.”

Will slowly leans back from his hunched observation and sighs. “Suppose you’re right,” he grumbles. “Alright, well— just like this, really.”

Damien frowns at him. “Really? Then there was no point to going all the way to Africa, was there?”

“There was a point! And even if there weren’t,” Will continues, defensively, “I don’t think it would matter. Why _not_ travel to Africa?”

“I’d be mad to, for no reason. It’s a long way.”

“Life needs a bit of madness, Damien. Do you want to know about it, or not?”

Damien raises his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright. What was the point, then?”

Will shrugs, gaze returning to the woods out ahead. “Something new. Something exotic. Animals I’d never seen, people I’d never met, tongues I’d never heard.”

“You didn’t get enough of that in the Army, did you?”

“Only sparked my interest more. And...” Will trails off, and his voice grows more subdued. “Going out there kept my mind off other things.”

Damien couldn’t begin to understand those other things, but Will charges ahead before he can ask.

“Beautiful country, there. Goes for miles in every direction, just you and the wild. Golden grass, the strangest trees, hot and dry.”

“Sounds to me you’re describing home,” Damien jokes, pleased when it eases the strange tightness around Will’s eyes. “Well. I’m glad you got to experience it, if it helped. Me, I’m just a homebody.”

Will hums. “Yes, you’ve always been right at home here. I suppose one of us four was going to.”

“I have things I want to do here,” Damien defends, though he has no reason to— Will doesn’t seem to be mocking him at all. “ I have ambitions, responsibilities—“

“People?”

_Now_ Will’s mocking him. Face once again warming, Damien mutters, “Shut up, Will.”

That doesn’t earn him a laugh at his expense, surprisingly. “There’s nothing wrong with having people to return to. Wherever I roam, I’ll always come back here, sooner or—“

He gasps, then lifts his rifle, and Damien can’t ask if he’s seen anything before the thing lets out a cracking shot.

It’s louder than thunder, louder than expected. Though he’s too late, Damien lifts his hands to his ears to protect them, jerking away.

Away into thin air.

The limbs are gone, out of reach, before he can move to catch himself, and his stomach swoops with the sensation of falling.

It’s hours and seconds before he hits the ground, a sickening sort of crack as he lands, and then—

“Damien!”

He can’t breathe, and he tries to roll over to get some air that isn’t clogged with leaves.

“Damien! Damien, oh, God—“

Pain. Agonizing pain, in his leg, sharp and hot and it won’t move right when he tries. It feels... loose. Or like his knee is in the wrong spot, or—

He tries to move again, and the bolt of pain makes him cry out, sinking back to his original position on the ground. “Oh, _God_ —“

“Damien!” The leaves next to him rustle, familiar boots slipping over the ground, and Will kneels down next to him. His eyes are wide below his askew helmet, glasses slipping off his nose, though he doesn’t move to correct either. “Damien, thank God, are you—“

Damien manages to heave himself around to look at him better, not bothering to hold back a scream of pain as the motion jostles his leg. “F- God damn it, what— what happened—“

“Damien, for the love of all things good and holy, I am ordering you,” Will says, sharply. His voice shakes. “Close your eyes and _do. Not. Look._ Do you understand me?”

Will looks _sick_. This man who has been on hunts, been in the Great War, looks shaken and sick at the sight of whatever his leg is doing at the moment.

If Will looks this bad—

Damien shuts his eyes tight. “What— how bad is it?”

“I don’t intend for your mind’s eye to see it, either,” Will replies, gruffly. The leaves rustle again, and when Will speaks next, he’s further away. “Alright, alright. First things first: we need to get you out of here.”

“Are you going to carry me out?” A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up before he can stop it. He can barely move without screaming— he’s definitely not walking under his own power.

“Not happening, I’m afraid.” Will must make up his mind about something, because his steps back sound more decisive. “I’m going to need to get some things, but it might be some time. I’m giving you this, alright?”

Damien cracks his eyes open, only to find the rifle lying beside him. “Colonel?”

“You might need it. I’ll be back as soon as I can, just—“ Will looks him over, nervously, and his eyes can’t seem to stay on either his leg or his face. “Don’t look, sit tight, and I will be back as soon as I can. I swear it.”

“I might need it?” His eyes open fully at that, horror slowly rising in his chest, and Damien starts to push himself upright. “Colonel— Will—“

He’s already walking away, each long stride determined. “Stay sharp, Damien!”

Stay sharp. If he’s half as sharp as the pain lancing through his leg if he moves up further than on his elbows, he’ll be just fine.

Will is gone for some time. Longer than Damien expected, with his insistence, with his quick steps away.

Did he go all the way back to town to get help?

He wouldn’t abandon him completely.

When he starts to feel a bit cold, limbs shaky, Damien looks at his watch. It’s broken, shattered glass face on his wrist— thankfully, the only thing on his upper half that is.

His lower half—

As he pulls his arm back to prop up behind him— reclining like this helps, or at least makes him feel less helpless— gritting his teeth, he—

Out of some terrible, morbid impulse, his eyes dart down to his leg.

His pants are stained. There’s a flash of shocking white.

His stomach churns with vicious, instant nausea, and he forces himself to look away, clenching his jaw against it.

The sun looks lower.

The ground under him feels damp, leaves colored red.

There are coyotes, here, he realizes in a daze. There are coyotes, and mountain lions, and a dead deer and an injured man. He is new to a rifle and unable to sit up. Will is not here.

The panic keeps the growing sleepiness away, which is all the good that can be said for it.

He should keep his heart down, if he’s bleeding—

He can’t breathe. What if something comes for him?

Sensing his inadequacy, indeed.

He needs to calm—

His friend, the aspiring attorney, pops into his mind. He’s seen them panic, grow shaky and unable to breathe with it, but they always come out okay. What do they do?

They—

They aren’t ever in such a situation, but they—

They look for _him_ , if they can. They grip his hands tight, keep their eyes on him, until he slowly sees the light come back, sees their breath settle, sees their little smile of gratitude.

~~Even that small, it feels like sunlight.~~

No way in hell would he wish for them to see him like this— one panicked individual is bad enough— but...

_Am I going to see them again?_

The thought comes just as unbidden, and infinitely less pleasant.

(It’s funny, in a way, that they are the first to mind rather than his sister, his brothers, his mother. A bittersweet kind of way.)

He has no delusions of confession, of something starting between them when— _when_ , not if, thank you— he gets back, grateful to be alive and taking the chance after being faced with the possibility of not. It isn’t that far gone.

Even if it seems to be headed that way. Even if he’s felt something like it for a few years, already.

They were planning a lunch before he left, because they are both overworked and in need of something nice and calm. He needs to be back for it.

Gritting his teeth again, Damien takes a grounding breath and scans the woods.

Will has all sorts of paraphernalia when he returns, a short— Damien thinks, the sun hasn’t sunk much further— time later: cloth from their campsite and leaves and long sticks, all lumped together on some kind of sled made of similar items.

“Back already?” Damien mutters, wearily easing back off his elbows. The lessened strain feels so much better, and he gives a sigh. “I barely got a moment’s rest.”

Will’s face, when it appears over him, is smiling but strained. “If you’re feeling up to humor, I think you’ll be alright. I’m going to have to splint you, so... hold onto that humor, Dames.”

He didn’t really feel the initial break, but the moving afterwards had been the most painful experience of his life thus far. Every last sense had dialed back save for touch, focused in on his leg, awkward in movement, dampened with his own blood, and it felt like fire streamed through his muscles, through his bones.

The splinting hurts far worse.

He screams just as his leg does when Will moves it, strapping it firmly between two long branches with cloth and strips of... something. Bark.

Whatever it is, they’re lashed together snugly, and with far less care than should be the bare minimum, in his opinion.

For all of the pain, the sickening grind of his leg, the catch of his pants, Damien doesn’t lose consciousness, though he loathes every last second of it.

No, Damien loses consciousness when, with bloodstained hands, and in one swift motion, Will shuffles him onto the makeshift litter he created.

Just before he goes under, he must say something, because Will, oddly, full-bodied _laughs_.


	2. Chapter 2

When he comes to, Damien is in a hospital.

Unsurprising, considering, but not pleasant. 

He hates hospitals. Going is never pretty, and the last time he was in one...

Things were said. Not the kind of parting words you’d hope for.

Pushing aside the dismal memories for the time being, Damien takes a bleary look around, taking quick stock of the situation.

He’s in a room, a real one, which means he’s been here for quite some time. You don’t get a room immediately, after all.

He’s out of his clothes, torn and soiled as they were, and instead in a standard hospital gown. Drafty, but there are thankfully blankets to keep out the chill.

His leg doesn’t  _ hurt _ , as such, anymore, but it’s heavy and stiff in a white cocoon of bandages.

So, there are quite a few positives: he isn’t dead, Will made it back in time to save his leg, and he isn’t in copious amounts of pain.

Negatives...

His  _ leg  _ is in a  _ massive  _ web of bandages, he feels like he’s in the clouds, and he’s alone in a hospital room.

Well, not alone for too terribly long— before he knows it, a nurse simultaneously fusses over him and asks questions: how is he feeling, does he need anything, is there anyone he needs to contact.

Fine, no, and a few, if they could manage it, he stutters in turn.

He isn’t so sure she absorbs that information, because he gets the same questions when an actual doctor arrives, and also— “You’re very lucky.”

“Lucky?” Damien tries not to vocalize just how unconvinced he is, but he isn’t certain he succeeds, because the doctor smiles.

“You can keep it,” the doctor points out. “After a long trek out of the woods, with a compound fracture like that... yes, you’re lucky. Even luckier if you can stand on it again.”

His stomach twists. “How about walking?”

The smile disappears. “We’ll focus on your healing, first,” the doctor replies, evasively. “It set back clean, with the rods to hold it, but to make certain it will heal and you’ll stay off it, it might be a while. Maybe a month.”

The rods. Metal, in his leg. And a few weeks, a  _ month _ , of sitting in this bed, with the possibility of never even  _ walking  _ again. Damien is a politician’s son, and a law student, and a politician-in-training— high on painkillers or not, he can read between the lines.

It’s what he stews in after the doctor leaves, after a second nurse with a third round of the same questions promises his friends and family will be notified.

He’s never going anywhere with Will, again.

If he even can.

... It isn’t Will’s fault. He shot the gun, but Damien wasn’t holding on tight enough. He suggested the trip, but Damien agreed to go.

He made his choices, and choices have consequences, good or bad.

It was an accident.

A terrible, terrible accident.

And it’s the first thing he says when Will, uncharacteristically sheepish and subdued, a little haggard from staying up waiting for him, enters his room perhaps fifteen minutes later. “You know I don’t blame you, right?”

“Of course!” The way his shoulders relax betrays his true feelings, but Damien lets it slide. “Accidents can happen out in the field— though I still am sorry. Nasty bit of luck.”

Damien grunts, half in agreement, half attempting to shift his weight on the bed. It’s far more difficult than is worth the trouble, with the injury and all; finally, he just lays back and sighs. “Nasty might be an understatement,” he mutters. “You know I’ll be here  _ weeks _ ? A  _ month _ ?”

Will takes a seat at his bedside. “I’m not surprised. I got a damn good look at your leg, far more than I wanted.” He shakes his head, nearly a shudder. “But you’ll still have it, in the end! And it’s only a few weeks. What could happen?”

“I could fail my classes.” Damien pauses. “Oh, damn it, my classes— Will, how the hell am I supposed to attend class with  _ this _ ? They’re half debate, and I can’t debate if I can’t even—“

“Hold on!” Hands raised— it doesn’t calm Damien much, though it cuts him off— Will waits another second before continuing, “Just explain what happened. They can’t fault you for an accident— I bet you’ll get a letter explaining everything if you asked.”

That would solve one problem, but the others...

Oh. Oh,  _ obviously _ . “Colonel, I’m going to need your help for this one, if you don’t mind.”

Will sits forward. “Of course, my friend! What do you need?”

“They may have called them, already—“ doubtful, but not impossible, “— but I need to to find a friend of mine at the university. It’s—“

“Your lovebird, isn’t it?”

“Will,” Damien snaps; his glare does nothing in the face of Will’s grin. “We share many of the same professors and classes. They could deliver the letters and schoolwork for me.”

“And they’ll want to see you.”

Damien unwittingly softens at that. “Yes, they’ll want to see me. I—“ _ I want to see them. _ “I, ah, believe they’ll be at the school library today, working— if it’s Friday, now?”

It’s hard to say with the lack of calendar, and how much time passed from their early afternoon trek until after his room placement, he can’t be certain. After confirmation from Will in the form of a nod, he continues, “If you could find them, I would very much be in your debt.”

Will nods again, firmly. “Consider it done, but call us even. It’ll be worth it to finally meet this friend of yours, after all your letters.” He pauses. “I don’t suppose you could explain what they look like, though?”

Fair enough. “If they’re wearing a seasonally-inappropriate sweater that is also too big, that’s probably them. I’ve described them to you—“

“With flowery prose to rival Mark’s writings, yes.” Will rears back in the chair to rock himself forward, up and onto his feet. “Don’t you worry, Damien! I’ll find this sweater-wearing ray of sunlight for you!”

“I didn’t call them that!”

“Close enough to it!” Will stops at the door for a moment. “Anything else you need? Speak now.”

How he can go from mocking him incessantly to sincere in the blink of an eye baffles Damien. “No, that’s it. Thank you, Will.”

Will gives him a grin, and with that, he’s gone.

Leaving Damien completely alone. In a hospital bed. With his injured leg.

He sighs.

It’s perhaps an hour or so after he’s brought a meal— he finishes it because he’s hungry, but that doesn’t make the food any more appetizing— his door opens again.

It’s them— his friend, the aspiring attorney.

They look ruffled, from hair to clothes, breathing a little heavy, and their eyes, already wide from some kind of rush, only widen further when they catch sight of him.

He lifts a hand, smiling and hoping for casual. “Good morning! It’s good to see you again— didn’t you have work, today?”

Their eyes narrow.

Oh, no.

“Really, that’s all you have to say?” Their voice is quiet as they approach his bed, hands tight around the strap of their bag. “I come up to the library and there’s a tall man _ I don’t know _ waiting for me. He then proceeds to introduce himself as your friend, the  _ Colonel _ , and also do I remember that hunting trip you were still supposed to be on? Cut short because you’re in the  _ hospital _ !”

They’re now close enough that he can see they aren’t just angry— they’re shaking a little, and their eyes hold a shine far too close to tears for his liking. “Hey,” he says, reaching out for them. “Hey, I’m—“

“Do  _ not— _ “ They cut off as his fingers brush the sleeve of their sweater. They don’t move away, but he doesn’t move any closer. “I did not sprint halfway here for you to just— say whatever it is you always do and make me not angry. I am  _ very  _ angry.”

“I know,” he says, softly. “I know you are, I know. You should be. I made a stupid mistake, and believe me, I’m paying for it. Please don’t cry, my dear, please.”

Damien doesn’t call them that, typically. He says friend, or their name, or legal eagle or busy bee or some other silly nickname in his lighter, more mischievous moods.

Calling them his dear, though he desperately wants to, is too close, too frightening. That’s a line he hasn’t crossed, for fear he won’t be able to stop, for fear that it will be too much.

But he can’t stand to make them cry, even out of worried anger.

They don’t seem any more upset at the slip, at least. “I’m not,” they mutter, with a stubborn sniff and rub of their cheek against their shoulder. 

“You sure?” Damien asks, teasing as gently as he can.

Their face scrunches further, closer to embarrassed. “Shut up, Damien,” they say, but when he tries to pull his hand away, they reach for it.

It’s just a clumsy catch of fingers, but it sets his heart racing. “You can’t be upset with me,” he manages, still soft, thankfully not strangled. “I’m hurt, you can’t be.”

“I can and I  _ am _ .” Still, their face begins to soften a little, more into concern than anger as their eyes trail back down his body. “I’m glad that I can be. What happened to you?”

_ I’m glad that I can be _ is really _ I’m glad you came back at all _ , and his whole stomach sours at the thought. “I broke my leg falling out of a tree.”

Their eyes snap back to his, incredulous, and he insists, “No, really, I did. Best place for deer hunting, according to the Colonel.”

“The  _ Colonel _ ,” his friend repeats, curtly, ice creeping in at the edges of their warm tone, “can go ahead and eat my—“

Damien barks a laugh before he can help it. “You can’t— watch your language!”

“You’ve said worse,” they sniff. “He’s the reason you fell, isn’t he? I don’t care if he’s about to get the greatest game of his life— he’s  _ wrong _ .”

“I won’t argue, there,” he comments, lightly. “He’s reckless, as well, and perhaps I should have argued the point. I made my choices, though.”

They remain quiet for a few moments, pensive, watching his leg. “Yes, I suppose you did,” they say, quietly, and in a relatively smooth motion, they pull Will’s chair closer with a foot and sit down. They don’t let go of his hand. “So. Do you— is it—?”

They look a little squeamish, even thinking about it. He can’t blame them. “It isn’t great,” he admits. “I’ll be here a few weeks. Likely a chair for school, after. They said if I can stand—“

A shaky breath, the fingers in his tightening their grip. “If?”

“... If.” He smooths his thumb over the back of their hand, without even really thinking about it. If it makes them uncomfortable at all, they don’t show it. “We were in the woods, it took time to get back, and it was  _ bad _ . They said I’m lucky I—“

“Damien, do not finish that sentence,” they snap, voice tight. “Don’t. You’re here, and you’re going to heal up, and damn it, you’re going to be on two feet again.”

Warmth pools, soft and sweet and fond, in his chest when he meets their eyes. Yes, those tears are now fully-formed, ready to spill over at a blink, but their entire face is set. Stubborn and unyielding. Convicted. “Have I ever told you how much I enjoy it when you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Your righteous determination.  _ That look _ .” He nods towards them. “That’s a virtue— that’s why you’ll be a great attorney.”

They blink, surprised, and tears finally roll down their cheeks, even as they huff. “That’s a kind way to say ‘stubborn as a bull’— and this isn’t about me, Moony. It’s about you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Moony?”

“You get this look, sometimes, like just now. Dreamy, moonstruck— you look like a damn fool.” A little smile finally, finally, begins to pull at the edges of their mouth as they wipe away the stray tears. “You’re awfully sweet when it happens, though.”

Oh, no— he hadn’t actually thought they could see that. His face warm, he replies, “I’ve been known to be sweet. Is it that out of the ordinary?”

“No.” Their smile grows, and-

Yes. 

Yes, it is exactly like the sun.

“There it is! For the record... I enjoy it, too.” They squeeze his hand. “A few weeks, you said?”

Struck dumb— how is he supposed to recover from any of this half as fast as they did?— he nods.

“Hm. Well.” They sit back a little bit to dig around in their bag one-handed. “You might need to refresh yourself on my handwriting, then.”

It is as terrible as it was in undergrad. He can only pray his grades won’t suffer.

————

His grades don’t suffer. Much.

His friend and the doctor must be awfully persuasive, because under their combined efforts, he’s granted permission to miss spoken debates, so long as he drafts responses in addition to other casework.

It’s a definite win and weight off his mind, but he can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

He likes making speeches.

What he doesn’t like, upon his eventual dismissal from the hospital, more than his painful crutches, more than his physical therapy, is the chair.

It’s a horrid, heavy, uncomfortable thing, hard as rock and straight-backed, formed of wood and metal. The minimal cushion doesn’t spare him any pain from sitting so long in it.

Worse are the snickers, initially begun by Will.

“Look, here,” he says, when Damien is first set, horrified, into the contraption. “The king in his throne!”

Damien growls, already irritated by having to be in the damn thing. “Don’t you laugh, Will. You have no right.”

“As your friend, I have every right,” he replies, haughtily.

Behind Damien, where a soft warmth radiates into the back of his head, the aspiring attorney also snickers, though they have the grace to try and conceal it. “Don’t laugh at him, Colonel,” they say.

He nearly smiles when he looks back at them, grateful, until they ruin it by continuing, “You’ll hurt the king’s feelings.”

“You, too, huh?”

“It’s too easy,” they say, grinning, but he feels the gentle pressure of fingers against his shoulder, reassuring and warm. Just teasing. “If anything, you might take it as a compliment.”

“You  _ are  _ very kingly,” Will says, crossing over to hold the door for them. “Besides the throne. Status, wealth—“

Damien sighs as he’s wheeled by. “Anything actually inherent? Or worthwhile?”

“You’re very proper?” They phrase it as a question, his friend, and they sound a little strained. From his weight in the wheelchair, likely, but they don’t stop pushing him along. “Well-spoken.”

“Commanding,” Will adds, and then, before Damien can turn back to glare at him, “not  _ demanding _ , but able to command. Leadership.”

“And, you’re always well-dressed.”

Damien looks down at his pajamas, brought from home and altered to accommodate his cast. They’re matching, at least. “A king in pajamas?”

“You think they wear their robes to bed?” They sound amused above him.

He smiles. “Mark does.”

“Mark isn’t a king,” Will cuts in, disgruntled. “No matter what he thinks of himself.”

Isn’t that the truth— both Mark’s inflated ego and the reality of the situation. Damien loves him— he’s his brother in all but blood, and by law, now— but he is... rather self-centered. To say the least. “But I am?”

“You are now!” The reply from behind him is chipper in excess, around a grin he can  _ hear _ . 

Unfortunately, his new title and— apparently— demesne aren’t exactly recognized with respect, as he hears the word half-mockingly as he’s wheeled around campus.

King Damien. Definitely not worth it.

The aspiring attorney is the one who wheels him.

Really, to and from every class, whether or not they have it together. If they don’t, he’ll find them outside his previous one, sometimes winded, ready to push him across campus.

“What else would I be doing?” They ask, when he brings it up. “It isn’t a hardship, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not.” He very much is. “I know this whole contraption is heavy  _ without  _ me in it—“

“Campus is flat as a board.”

“And you have other classes—“

“I finish my work quickly.”

“And it can’t be much fun—“

“Damien!” They stop pushing him to come around front, looking him dead in the eye. Their face is more serious— and exasperated— than he’s seen in some time. “Of course it isn’t  _ fun _ .  _ Fun  _ would be going to a show, or playing a game. This is  _ necessary _ , and I  _ want  _ to.”

He doesn’t feel reassured. “It shouldn’t be necessary.”

“But it  _ is _ .” Their eyes soften a little as they sigh. “It’s easier for you to come to class if you get help, right? And I know your schedule, and where your classes are, because they’re virtually identical, so why shouldn’t I just help?

“Besides,” they continue, even quieter, “before, we’d be dashing every which way to get somewhere and we  _ might  _ get an afternoon to be together. Now... I can spend more time with you.”

They glance away at that last part, unable to meet his eyes for all their embarrassment at being so sentimental, and his heart melts. Of course, because his mouth moves before he thinks about it around them, he says, “Are you sure you didn’t orchestrate all of this? You could have just asked for time.”

They groan, coming back around his chair. “Shut  _ up _ ,” they mutter. “Honestly, if this is what I get for trying to be nice...”

Damien snickers, but lifts one hand from the books in his lap to reach back, over his shoulder. It’s an awkward position, but he just finds the warmth of their hand, soft skin under his fingers. “I do appreciate it, though.”

“You’d better,” they reply, simply, but fingers briefly squeeze his before returning to the handle. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

His return to school therefore goes... reasonably well. He keeps on top of his work, isn’t late, and places well on any exams, thanks to his friend’s help.

If their Christmas gift after the end of the term is perhaps bigger and in the form of more than one gift... that’s between the both of them.

They about have his ears for it, but he gets a slightly-awkward, mostly-wonderful chair-based hug for his efforts.

————

In the new year, Damien gets  _ incredible  _ news.

“You’ve healed up wonderfully,” his doctor comments, considering the image in his hands. It’s ghastly, stark black on white displaying his bones in all their glory, and Damien can’t look for long.

“Well, that’s good to know,” he replies, weakly. “I haven’t been on my feet in months.”

The doctor replaces the sheet into its respective folder. “Not even on your crutches?”

Ugh, his crutches. Painful and unwieldy and awkward under his arms. “Sometimes. It’s easier to get around campus in the chair.”

“I understand, but from these x-rays, I would recommend more time on them.” He’s fixed with a stern, though not disappointed or angry, stare. “You’ve healed up enough to start putting more weight on it.”

Damien takes a moment to understand that, and his eyes widen. “I can stand? Without the-“

“If you start slow and light, yes. And you keep up with exercises.” After considering the folder a few more seconds, the stern look fades in favor of a slight smile. “I say, if you do, you’ll  _ walk  _ without them.”

“Walk?”

That’s a far, far cry from his initial thoughts— from Damien’s worst fears. He was lucky to keep his leg, then lucky to stand— now lucky to walk. What’s one more miracle?

“Walk,” the doctor confirms. “But only if you work for it. It won’t be easy, Damien, or fast, but it’s possible.”

It’s  _ possible _ . He could be back to normal— or, close enough.

The problem...

“ _ Fuck _ !”

“Damien!”

Damien winces, rocking back onto his good leg. “Sorry,” he mutters, adjusting his grip on his crutch.

Celine huffs, crossing her arms. “I know it hurts, but you can’t just shout curses when you step wrong.”

“You’re supposed to help.”

“If you want to get any better-“

“Celine, I—“

Mark pokes his head around the corner. “If you would keep it down, Damien? This is a rather important monologue I’m preparing.”

Damien’s surprised to find his sister’s face sour. “Yes, aren’t they all? At all hours, too.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Mark’s face darkens as he comes around properly. “ _ Aren’t they all _ ? It’s my profession.”

“It’s your  _ life _ ,” Celine retorts, hotly. “You could take a break, perhaps  _ help _ ?”

“ _ I _ could help— what about  _ you _ , my dove? What do  _ you  _ do?”

Damien doesn’t really care that it’s painful— he takes his leave as quickly as he can. He doesn’t want to get involved in some lover’s quarrel.

Will is just as ineffectual in helping with his exercises. He’s either far too intense—

_ “I watched men do more on the front! Pick it up!” _

— or far too lenient.

_ “You can take a break. Life’s too short, Dames!” _

It seems the only person able to help without interruption is the exact same person who helped him, before.

“Just another two... one... there! You’re done— back, slow.”

Damien eases his leg back down to the ground, gritting his teeth. “I know to go slow.”

“But you don’t,” the aspiring attorney responds, simply, from their cross-legged position beside him. “You rush it a little.”

“It’s—“

“I know, I know, it hurts. I’d be really surprised if it didn’t.” They pat his ankle, just a quick, gentle  _ taptap _ . “Up again, one more and you can rest.”

Damien sighs. As he lifts, bending his knee up to his chest, he spots his friend stretching their own legs out. “Show-off,” he teases.

They give him a cheeky grin. “Think of it as what you could have if you do your exercises.”

What he could have. They grunt, bent double to pull their foot back, and he looks away, focusing on his knee. “Ah- thank you. For doing this for me.”

“Well, someone has to keep you on track.” They sit back up, watching him— likely counting in their head. “I told you you’d be on two feet again, and I’ll make damn sure I’m right. Five more seconds.”

“If only you were half as dedicated with your speeches.”

“Did I say five? I meant ten.”

He turns to them, despairing. His leg’s already trembling. “I meant you’re a wonderful orator and destined for greatness.”

They laugh. “You took it a little far. Go ahead- slow.”

“Oh, thank God,” he sighs, resting his leg back beside the other. “I do mean that, you know. You could be, anyway.”

“I lock up under pressure.” They fiddle with the sleeve of their sweater, too long over their wrist. “You’ve seen it.”

He has— a different sort of panic. Not shaking and crying, breath fast and uneven, but pure silence, no matter how hard they work to make sound. “I know, but I’ve also read your casework. You’re miles above.”

A little smile pulls at their lips. “If we could somehow combine our skills, we’d be a damn good lawyer.”

“A damn good lawyer with working legs.”

“Isn’t that just the dream?” After another few seconds, they pat his leg again.  _ Taptap _ . “Alright, best for last. Hold tight!”

It isn’t always so pleasant, though. Some days, when the weather grows colder or damper, the bone and muscles ache, deep and unending no matter what medicines he takes.

These days, even the simplest of motions is stiff and slow, and it wears at his nerve, at the bindings holding back his temper.

“God  _ damn  _ it!” Damien lowers his leg back to the starting position.

“Damien, that wasn’t—“

“I know it wasn’t,” he snaps, eyes narrowed in their direction. “It won’t do it. I can’t do this today.”

They frown, disappointed. “You can. I know you can, you do it every time. Come on, try again, just—“

“I can’t do it today!” Gritting his teeth at the strain it causes in his thigh, Damien sits up from his reclined position. “The damn thing won’t move— you saw how I hobbled around this morning!”

“You  _ hobble  _ because you won’t do your stretches!” They gesture to his leg. “If you want to walk normally, you have to. It’s good for you!”

Damien points out the fogged, rain-beaded window. “ _ That’s _ why I hobbled! I do these fucking things every day and I just can’t do it. It hurts, it won’t move, and your badgering is the furthest thing from helpful!”

Their eyes narrow. “ _ You’re _ the one who asked for my help. Don’t you dare pretend I’m some nag bothering you at all hours.”

“I wouldn’t call you a nag, but a bother sounds right,” he spits. “I asked for help, not a broken record who tells me what I already know! I can do all of this just fine without you!”

“I don’t  _ have  _ to be here!” Their normally soft voice grows loud and strained, infuriated. “Do you know what I give up to come help you? Hell, I could’ve been on an outing right now, but I turned him down to come here, and for what? To be yelled at? To be told I’m not even wanted here?”

An outing— or, the new parlance, a  _ date _ . The cold weight in his gut only further stirs his anger. “Why don’t you go, then? Go, have fun— maybe I’ll get some peace.”

Their face scrunches further, anger and the stubborn set of their jaw a strange but complimentary sight: familiar and new at once. “Fine,” they reply, all venom. “Fine, maybe I will. Anything is a better use of my time. Enjoy your peace— maybe that will help you get back on your feet.”

They turn on their heel and storm away, out of the room, before he can get another word in.

The slam of the door sounds  _ final _ .

Damien allows himself to stew in that anger for some time— he hurts, he isn’t making progress, their annoyances, the fact that  _ someone else _ is taking their affections— but as time passes and his leg aches less and less, that anger turns to worry. To despair.

What the hell has he done?

As he’s settling in for his stretches the next, beautifully sunny, day— there’s no soft voice, no warm hand patting him to move to the next exercise, just lonesome quiet— he hears the door open.

They meet his eyes, very briefly, when they round the corner.

“You’re back,” he murmurs, disbelieving.

“You don’t hold it long enough,” they reply, just as soft. “And you never have a cold compress ready. I don’t want you to hurt yourself again.”

He nods, but doesn’t speak until they’ve settled beside him on the floor. “I’m—“

“I’m—“

They both cut off, surprised. “You can go ahead,” his friend says. “Please.”

“I’m sorry. I was so- so vicious, and I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Words or tone. It was awful of me, and if you don’t forgive me, I—“

“I do.” They shuffle just a little closer, growing heat against his forearm. “I know you were hurting, and I was being a bit much.”

Damien reaches out, hesitant fingers just brushing their shoulder. “That’s no excuse,” he says, firmly. “I should never speak to anyone that way,  _ especially  _ you. You’ve been nothing but wonderful to me this entire time.”

They look down at his hand, and then— one of theirs comes up to meet it. “You’ve been doing an excellent job, though. I know you keep up, I know you work hard. Sometimes you just have bad days with it, and I should listen when you say it’s too much. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, either. I’m sorry, Damien.”

“You’re already forgiven.” He squeezes their fingers, gently, and feels them return the pressure. “I’m more than happy to have you here. If you want to be.”

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

“Not even on your... your outing?”

They smile. “No. It was fine, but... I was somewhere else the whole time. Rainy days are best spent inside with loved ones, aren’t they?”

His stomach flutters, spreading warmth through his chest. “And sunny days?”

“On a walk in the park with loved ones, and you aren’t on your feet just yet.” They pat his leg.  _ Taptap _ . “Come on, let’s earn that walk.”

Sometimes the snappish element returns, underlying frustration and anger, but it never gets so bad that they leave, again. They’re both trying, and keep at it, and day by day, he gets stronger.

That’s what matters.

————

Damien would dance for joy the day he’s cleared from crutches, if he were able to. That leg is still weak, eight full months out from his break.

Just in time for his birthday, though.

“I wouldn’t go celebrating quite yet,” the doctor warns him. “You’ll still need a cane if you want to get around much faster or longer than around the house.”

“A cane?” Yes, he’s disappointed, but it’s a far cry better than being chair-bound, in his opinion. “Alright. Is there... I don’t know, a particular kind, or..?”

It gets him a smile. “Your cane is more personal than those crutches. So long as it’s sturdy, it could have any style you like. Hook, animal head, shiny, plain— whatever you’d prefer.”

He has his sights set on one in particular when he’s able to get around to purchasing one. Matte black, simple handle— neutral and modest and mostly invisible. He’d rather not draw attention to it if he can help it.

Then, at his birthday party, when the aspiring attorney tells him to close his eyes and hold out his hands, he feels something long, thin, and solid. “What-?”

“Surprise!”

It’s a cane, but not the one he was after. No, this one is gleaming black wood, with a polished silver handle, etched with an intricate pattern.

He blinks down at it. “You— you got me a cane?”

“You were taking your time,” they point out. “And you needed it sooner rather than later. So, with a little help—“ they gesture towards his other friends, “— I got you this one.”

That just might explain some things, then. “Thank you, really, but... isn’t it a bit flashy? It’s just a cane, it doesn’t need to be—“

“Damien.” Celine fixes him with a look. “Accept the gift.”

Mark pipes up, next. “And why not show off a little? Far more interesting than some stick.”

“You had your throne,” Will adds, mustache twitching with amusement, “why not a scepter,  _ King _ ?”

Damien twirls the cane a little. It has good, solid weight to it. “You know, I’ve always wondered how much abuse that pith helmet of yours could take.”

“It’s pretty sturdy,” the aspiring attorney comments over Will’s yelp of protest. “A couple good swings, maybe.”

Mark, pleadingly— “Not in my house,  _ please _ !“

“Or one really good one,” Damien counters. He swings the cane to the ground and tests his weight, then walks a few steps.

Still a little slow and uneven, but a marked improvement. In fact... he nearly feels normal.

Later, when they’re alone, he says, “I never said, but... thank you. For— for all of it. The cane, the help, the chair. I wouldn’t be upright without you.”

They smile at him, soft and pleased but so bright, so warm. A sweater-wearing ray of sunlight. “I told you you’d be on two feet.”

“I guess you did,” he admits, laughing. “I should never doubt you, again, my dear.” 

A hand brushes his, and he doesn’t think before he takes it. 

They squeeze. “Damn right, you shouldn’t.”

He does not, in fact, hit Will with the cane. Though it’s tempting.


	3. Chapter 3

Over time, Damien gets better with the cane.

It’s a slow, slow process, but each day he’s a bit stronger, a bit faster.

Even if it means he strains himself in his hurry.

He goes from leaning heavily on it to get around his house to only needing it outside.

From needing it outside, on to needing it most days.

Then fewer days.

And he gets faster, limps less.

Some days, he isn’t faster or stronger. Some days, he pays for overexerting himself, screaming pain and bone-deep aches in his thigh that nothing less than sleep can assuage, entirely.

Some days it gets cool or damp, and the entire thing seizes up. On the coldest day he can remember in... well,  _ years _ , his leg is so stiff he can hardly get out of bed.

Some days— and especially during his campaign for mayor— he’s on his feet for far too long, and the cane is usually the only thing keeping him upright as he stumbles for a chair.

Usually. Sometimes an aide will help, though he’s loathe to have anyone see his weakness who doesn’t need to.

Other times...

Well, he hears “You’re an idiot,” muttered under breath more than once, in all kinds of ways: exasperated, gruff, annoyed. Fond, oddly. Always from his friends.

“You need to take care of yourself, little brother.”

“Honestly, Damien, you can’t do your best work stretched so thin.”

“Come, now, we’ll get your pep back! In due time, that is.”

“Damien, please. You worked hard today— get some rest. For me, if not yourself.”

The DDA— upon graduation, and they dive into the role with the same dedication they gave school, his recovery,  _ everything— _ is especially present later on, when things grow colder between the rest of his friends, when he begins his bid for mayor. They’re more an advocate for him than he is for himself, and he chalks up his victory to their ardent support and work on his behalf. He returns the favor as much as he can when, in two years, they run for District Attorney.

He uses them as a crutch more times than he’s comfortable with, but they never complain. At least, not that he’s aware of.

All that said, though, some days?

Some days are  _ extremely _ good.

Some days he feels almost normal, barring the smallest twinge in his leg. These are the days when he pushes himself too far, because it’s near enough to feeling like the whole thing never happened: the days where he walks quickly without the cane, takes up offers to go out, attends parties.

(The next day is always full of hissing and groaning, cold compresses and peppermint oil and massage, and heavy use of his cane.)

One such moment, almost three years since his accident, he cherishes the memory of, no matter the pain in his leg the next day.

The Bar examination was tough. Tougher than he’d expected, tougher by far than he’d hoped. Even the aspiring attorney sitting the test with him had seemed more stressed than usual.

Way more stressed.

————

For the first half of the preparations leading up to their exam, his friend speaks little, brow furrowed in determination, nose buried in books and notes.

The latter? They don’t speak a word.

Not out of focus, not out of stubborn will, but out of anxiety. Damien doesn’t hear their soft voice for a solid two weeks prior, and it’s as if all noise coming from them has been muted.

No laughs, no grunts, no hums. They don’t sing. They don’t speak.

The night before is when the shaking begins, tears rolling down their cheeks as they sob, silent as anything else.

He damns any and all propriety, any lines drawn for his heart’s sake, to keep them pressed tight into his side, under his arm. He murmurs to them, softly.

“You’re so brilliant, my dear. You work so hard. Everything you’ve ever done has been for this and you will do  _ wonderfully _ , I know you will. You will make it through this and you’ll be the best lawyer they’ve ever seen.

“I’m- I’m nervous, too,” he admits. “I’m very nervous. But we’ll sit this exam, and we’ll get our results, and we’ll pass. We’ll have done it. And I promise, sweetheart— I promise it’ll be alright.”

They squeeze their arms tight around his waist, and only cling tighter at his words, at the kiss he dares to press to the top of their head. They still don’t make a sound, but they briefly touch his cheek with their hand when their tears slow for a moment, eyes shining with gratitude.

They sit the exam.

The results don’t come for months, but when they do, he goes to their home as quickly as he can, his own results in hand.

They look a mess when they open the door, though he hears soft music playing inside, and their mouth works, but nothing comes out.

“It’s alright,” he soothes, quietly. “It’s alright. We’ll open them together, you and me.”

They nod, short and sharp, and sit close as they can when they adjourn to the couch.

“Ready?” He asks. “Take a deep breath, in... and out.”

They do as he says, still looking like they’re one wrong move from collapsing, either into tears or in general. Their hands shake a little less, though, which is an improvement he’ll take.

“Three, two, one...”

For a few moments, it’s just the sound of paper getting ripped, shuffled, the quiet music from the phonograph in the corner.

He finds his results, and before he can break that silence with his own jubilation— he passed, he really passed!—

His friend begins to laugh.

Not bitter, or defeated, as feared, but cheerful, _delighted_ laughter.

“Well?” He asks, already grinning when he turns to them. “How’d you do, then? I can’t tell.”

“I-“ Their voice is still tight, still partially behind whatever block their mind so often puts in place, but they’re beaming, even when they jump up to move, unable to contain their excitement. “Dame- I did it! You-“

“I did it,” Damien echoes, and allows the joy to finally wash right over him. “We both did it!  _ We did it! _ ”

Giddy, he jumps up, as well.

How, exactly, they end up in an embrace is a bit of a mystery— not for lack of wanting, but for who exactly initiates it. All Damien knows is that he moves, and they move, and then his arms are full of the no-longer-aspiring-but- _ real _ attorney.

Their jubilant laughter muffled against his shirt, their arms tight around his neck only further drive his happiness; with the music he can still hear, what begins as a sway born of pent-up energy grows into a full dance, one where he spins them around the cramped space of their living room.

They go along with him a few seconds, but sober enough to pull back a bit and say, “Damien- your leg, you really shouldn’t-“

“I feel  _ fantastic _ ,” he replies, but slows the motions of his feet. “Don’t worry about me. Do you really want me to stop? Because I can.”

For all their zeal in pursuing his full recovery, they visibly hesitate at his offer. After a few seconds— long seconds, where their waist under his hands, their arms around his shoulders, their face so close to his make his heart pound in tense, faint hope— they shake their head, a little shy. “We can keep dancing,” they say, softly. “Lead me?”

Damien smiles, and says, “I’d be honored.”

His leg is sore as the dickens the next day, unused to the strain of much more than walking, but it was absolutely worth the pain to have their head against his shoulder, their quiet humming sweet in his ears with the record still playing.

————

It isn’t so terrible, over time. It just becomes a part of him, something he grows used to and accepts, even when days are rough and painful.

By the time of his election to mayor, it’s a normal part of his life. By the time of the DA’s appointment, he’s learned which days  _ might _ turn out poorly and how to adjust his life accordingly.

By the time of the poker night, he realizes he hates stairs with a burning passion.

The damnable place has a seemingly-infinite number of staircases, and not just straightforward up and down like city hall: spiraling, steep, narrow things that test both his leg and his patience.

Not that the ones at city hall don’t test him. On a good day, it’s a minor annoyance; on a bad day, he considers if he could pass some kind of statement to entirely ban stairs, at least within the city.

It wouldn’t work, of course, but he seriously considers it.

The time at the manor is actually a good stretch for his leg— little pain, though he keeps his cane at hand just in case it decides to act up— but he wouldn’t call it a few good days.

The days your friends turn on each other and get killed, get changed, get trapped, caught up in some idiot’s twisted revenge scheme, could never be called  _ good _ .

When he stalks from the manor, afterward, forever changed, forever a Broken Thing, he realizes his leg doesn’t hurt at all. Not a twinge or a strain.

Of course, it would be nothing to his cracking neck, searing pain in his stomach without the wound to prove it.

(This is how ~~the love of his life~~ _ they _ felt when they  _ died _ .)

This pain doesn’t go away, doesn’t have good days. He has no throne to hold him while it heals, no cane to prop him when he flags.

He doesn’t have someone to coach him through, push him, comfort or be comforted by.

But...

Mark took his body. The thing that keeps them both alive, for decades unchanging, doesn’t remove the pain of injury.

He knows Mark’s weakness, as it was once his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr! ty so much for reading <3


End file.
